


Early Morning Blues

by BruceBanner_CantHave_NiceThings



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bruce being contemplative, Just late night/early morning depression, M/M, Romance, Tony being the healthy-er one in this relationship, and weirdly poetic, non-explicit mentions of child abuse, some conversation about bruce's shitty childhood, some light drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BruceBanner_CantHave_NiceThings/pseuds/BruceBanner_CantHave_NiceThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nights like these where Bruce is left to contemplate why he's allowed to have this, to have Tony. Because his father told him, time and again, that monsters don't deserve love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Morning Blues

Bruce lays back and watches the smoke dance around the room. He takes a breath and then another hit of the joint, counting down the minutes until the delightful haze takes over his mind. It isn’t about the other guy, his habit, but more about Bruce. Bruce Banner, who can never lose control, never shut down, never let people in. His mind is the energizer bunny, and the chaotic noise of his brain is always scared, mistrustful and angry. 

He smokes so he can feel human. He smokes so he can relax, ease the paranoia of his brain and let people in. He smokes so he can love Tony like he deserves to be loved. 

Bruce looks to his left and there he is, his lover naked and asleep on the bed beside him. Tony is splayed out on his stomach, covers wrapped half-heartedly around his waist, covering next to nothing. He clings to a pillow, his face buried into it. Tony looks obscene like that, naked ass in the air, cum on his thighs and his hair standing up in all directions. 

Debauched. His boyfriend/best friend/landlord/teammate is utterly debauched. It’s no accident either. Tony fell asleep like that on purpose, so many of the seemingly accidental things he does are put into motion with more forethought than anyone would ever imagine. He’s doing this for Bruce. Putting on a show, even in his sleep.

_Look what you’ve done to me Banner_ , the pose says to him, _you’ve fucked me into exhaustion._

Bruce reaches out with the hand not holding the joint and strokes Tony’s back. It’s cold from old sweat. He wants to kiss the expanse of skin, to worship every inch of his exposed body. He wants to thank Tony, for giving Bruce his love, his body, acceptance. And so many other things that Bruce can’t quite figure out right now. It’s more of a feeling. Tony gives his chest, his insides, this glowy feeling, a lightness that’s like the sun breaking through the clouds.

Tony gives him what he’s wanted for so long, what he thought he’d never have and what he knows he doesn’t deserve. Love, happiness, family, safety. Tony offers him these things freely, with a smile, not realizing what he’s doing, what it means to him.

Bruce has been loved before but it has never lasted this long. It has been torn away from him. Because he hasn’t earned it, doesn’t deserve it.  
Because monsters don’t deserve love.

It was one of the first things life ever taught him, his father’s fists as a teaching aide, his mother’s death as a sign. 

Bruce takes a shaky hit off the joint, hoping to counteract that train of thought. Apparently his blissed out high has taken a turn. His drugged out mind has decided to torture him with ghosts of horrible childhood memories passed.

He giggles at this, though it isn’t very funny. He laughs a lot now, even when he isn’t feeling it. Tony loves to hear him laugh, to make him laugh. For a man who delights in being a pain, Tony Stark sure seems to enjoy making people happy. 

Even in his pain, Tony will try to make him laugh. Hell, he loves this the most. That’s what Tony seems to do, at any rate. He takes his pain and turns it into his laughter. His distant father becoming a joke, his inability to commit or put down the fucking bottle is some light dinner conversation. 

Bruce laughs at any rate. It’s not funny, it causes his heart to hurt, but he laughs. Then, after a bit, he offers his own tales of woe for a giggle. Joking about running into doorknobs, falling down the stairs, about latent anger issues and isn’t that fucking funny? Isn’t it a goddamn laugh riot that when he was little he was so afraid of being a monster? Of being controlled by his anger? 

And Tony laughs through clenched teeth. He doesn’t tell Bruce that he’s not a monster, that he’s not his father. Because he knows that’s not how this works. And that it wouldn’t work.

But he does something better. He makes Bruce a sandwich and sits in his lap. Treats Bruce like furniture, like a toy. Teases him and flirts with him and pretends like they are perfectly healthy, happy men. That they didn’t say anything, didn’t reveal anything. So they don’t have to dwell on it. 

Bruce tries to make smoke rings and fails. They are frayed around the edges and dissipate before becoming actual rings. This saddens him more than it should. That these fragile puffs of smoke weren’t able to fulfill his destiny for them. He shapes a few more deformed circles with his mouth and then sighs. 

And for some reason this feels like prophecy. It’s vastly important to him that his smoke rings fail. The children of his lungs aren’t meant for life. They crawl out of his throat and enter the world misshapen, grotesque. 

Bruce feels tears starting to form and dammit why the hell is he crying? He closes his eyes and tries to force the tears to not come but fuck it there they are, sliding down his face. He’s mourning puffs of smoke and feeling ridiculous. He wipes them away quickly, angry at his own weakness. 

“JARVIS?” He asks

“Yes Dr. Banner?” the AI answers in clipped tones.

“Activate the…Start the…TV. I need television please. The sound box, the thing with the people. You know.”

“Yes Dr. Banner.”

“And then switch to manual control please. I’m not fixed up enough…I’m not straight enough…haha that’s not what I meant. I’m not right enough to do it myself.”

“Certainly Dr. Banner.” 

The TV hidden in the entertainment center began to rise from its hole. Bruce stares at it, transfixed until it settles into place. Then there is noise. Bruce smirks when he realizes what he’s watching. On his screen, two men are fucking a very well endowed blonde woman with abandon. Then they reach over her and kiss hot and heavy, with a liberal use of tongue that can be only described as ‘mouth fucking’. 

Of course the TV would have been left on the porn channel. 

Bruce feels a slight stirring in his stomach. He considers watching for a bit more, but the thought of masturbating while tears stream down his face is far too depressing, even for him. 

He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the remote. He flips through channels in a haze, stopping on a channel for a few seconds, before going to another one. It’s all either too loud or violent, or too boring. The various infomercials make him yawn and he doesn’t want sleep, not yet. Not when his gut is twisting and turning and his mind is determined to send him spiraling into the deepest depths of his depression. 

He finally does the smart thing and puts the joint out in the ashtray on the nightstand. He gives it a dirty look, as if the pot was actively waging war on his peace of mind. 

“What did I ever do to you?” He asks the joint.

Luckily for his sanity, he gets no response.

He finally finds something to watch. Some sit com with recycled humor and an unconvincing laugh track. It’s mildly funny, and wonderfully distracting. Bruce burrows into the covers and puts his arm behind his head. The warm glow of the television is washing onto his skin, the sound comforting his screaming mind.

He looks again to Tony. His mere presence usually brings Bruce some calm. Tony is his comfort and his charm. He is the wild music that soothes Bruce’s savage beast. Tony is awash in colors, his skin is a radioactive green. 

This almost gives Bruce a heart attack. He panics for a moment. _Oh no oh no oh no_ , his mind screams at him. _What have I done? What’s happening?_

_Oh_ , Bruce realizes as his heart finally sinks to its rightful place, _it was the light of the TV._

The Hulk is in his mind more now, groggy but awakened by Bruce’s fear. _It’s alright_ , Bruce tries to send to the monster in his mind, _nothing’s happened, we’re fine_.

METAL MAN HURT? Hulk responds. There’s something in that response, sadness that gives Bruce pause. Even The Hulk knows Tony’s important, that he’s special. Or maybe the Hulk just likes finally having a friend. 

_No, Metal Man’s just fine. Got scared over nothing._

STUPID BANNER. Hulk replies, before seeping back into the ether where he lives. 

Yes, Stupid Banner. Stupid Banner who freaked out over TV lights. Who thought he could infect his lover with his curse, even though they had done extensive experiments on the possibilities. “Don’t wanna turn into Big Green 2.0 just for a good fuck” Tony had said. “Though it’d be fucking cool, if you think about it. TONY SMASH! It would be fucking brilliant.”

Stupid Banner, who thought the only way he could ruin Tony Stark was through Gamma radiation. Who didn’t realize that he was going to ruin Tony regardless. 

Because Bruce ruins everyone in the end, doesn’t he? 

Bruce is a disease and he’s very contagious. The people around him break out in pain and rage instead of boils and vomit. The people around him always suffer. 

His parents, Betty and now Tony. He chants their names like a prayer. He confesses to the wind his apologies and he wishes for someone to absolve him of his sins. 

Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. 

Though it would make no difference. The only way to be absolved is to repent and to strike the sin from your life. Bruce can’t do this, won’t do this.  
No matter how diseased he is, he can’t stay away. 

He feels loved and welcomed and those two words, two emotions are so fleeting and so beautiful that he cannot help but hold onto them in a bearlike grip. He hoards them in his heart, under lock and key. These feelings and the man beside him can only be taken away if someone pries them out of his cold, dead hands. 

The tears have stopped and all that’s left is the cold on Bruce’s skin. He basks in the uncomfortable bite of it, he’s undeserving of the warmth of the blankets. It’s his tiny punishment to himself, for not being the better man. For refusing to let Tony go. 

Bruce reaches out and begins to comb his fingers through Tony’s hair. It’s soft as silk and beautiful. Then again Bruce finds every inch of him beautiful. Especially Tony’s scars. He’s kissed and licked and bit around the jagged ones that surround the arc reactor. They speak to the life in his lover, the determination. Tony Stark has suffered, survived and arisen out of the ashes a better man. 

The blue light in his chest is a beacon of hope. Tony uses his heart to give light to the world. How more fucking beautiful could a man be? 

Bruce’s scars are different. They are various, ugly and old. They speak to his nature, monstrous and deformed. He flinches if Tony touches them. The marks on his body are in a language all their own, they spell out what he is. A freak, a monster, a deformed creature that not even a mother or a father could love. 

_Did she love me?_ Bruce asks himself. 

How could she? How could she love a boy who was born bad? Born a monster? The boy with the special best friend inside him, who’d come out if he got too angry. A huge monster that could rip the heads off of mean grownups that hit you and yelled at you and smelled like alcohol. A monster that, with the right amount of gamma radiation, would transform into the Hulk and destroy entire cities. 

Bruce doesn’t cry at this, doesn’t mourn or wish to beg for his mother’s love. That time is long past. Instead he scratches lightly at the base of Tony’s neck. If Tony were awake he’d kiss him there, maybe nip at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Roll him over and make love to him, sweet and slow. Infect his skin with Bruce’s disease, cement his resolve even more. That he will allow himself this, even if it kills them both. 

Bruce’s hand begins to shake and he cannot figure out why. It seems to be acting on its own volition. He chokes back tears and wonders at it all. His emotions are rarely this forceful, rarely this open. Yet he shakes and he tries not to cry. The phantom hand on Tony’s neck continues to move, imperceptible except to he who is connected to it. He snatches this ghostly appendage away, fearing in the back of his disoriented mind that it poses some danger to the man beside him. If it can act on its own, could it not hurt the man he loves?

He puts his hands together, forcing them to stay in his lap. They ache for Tony’s skin, beg him to allow them that much, but this must be denied. He knows not what they’re capable of and must guard his vulnerable lover from them at all costs. 

Now both hands shake, no matter how hard he squeezes them together. The heat of it does nothing to soothe them. He aches for his lover, so close and yet so far. His skin sings out for him, his mind echoing a chorus of “Tony, Tony, Tony” that must be shunned. 

His damn traitorous hands sneak past his gaze to touch his lover again. He forcibly keeps them hovering midair. No. You can’t have this, he whispers. He’s going mad. His body is betraying him. It cannot be trusted, _he_ cannot be trusted. 

He jerks his arms back fast and hits the bed stand accidentally. It hurts and he gasps with it. There’s mumbling from where Tony is. Hopefully he’ll stay asleep as Bruce loses his mind. Hopefully he won’t have to bear witness to it all.

Bruce crosses his arms and makes an effort to not look at Tony. He trails his gaze to the television, hoping to be distracted again. Looking at Tony will lead to touching Tony and he just can’t risk it.

The shaking eventually subsides. He wills his fingers to move and they do. He wills them to stop and they listen. They are under his control yet again. He barks similar orders to the rest of his body, which is also under his command. Good.

“Have you even slept yet?” comes at him from the side.

He jumps, he can’t help himself.

“Wh…what?” 

“I asked,” Tony says, righting himself, “have you slept yet?”

There’s accusation in his sleepy tone, of just what Bruce isn’t sure. A lie comes to his lips, without his permission.

“Yeah. I…I just woke up a few minutes ago. Couldn’t get back to sleep so I thought I’d watch TV.” 

Tony looks at him skeptically. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “Cant bullshit a bullshitter Bruce, I can tell you haven’t.” Tony then leans into his space and looks him in the eye. He’s too close. Touchably close. Dangerously close. “You’re stoned, aren’t you?”

“…Not really. I mean I smoked some a while ago. I mean…I mean yes. Yes I am.” Bruce bites his lower lip. Tony’s never really had a problem with his habit, seeing it as Bruce’s calm in a plant. But maybe that’s changed. Maybe this is unacceptable. Maybe he’s going to be mad.

“Least you could do is share”, Tony says, pointing to the joint in the ashtray. 

Oh well…that was unexpected. Not bad, just different. 

“Sure,” Bruce says, getting the joint and his lighter off the nightstand. He fumbles trying to light it, his body feeling weak with the emotions the night had been plaguing with. Tony takes the joint from his hand and puts it in his mouth. “Light it for me?” He asks with a seductive smile. 

“Ah, ok.” It still surprises him how Tony can make anything seductive. 

He does and Tony breathes in deeply. He rarely smokes, preferring his vice to come out of a bottle. So it surprises no one when Tony’s frame is racked with coughs. 

“Ugh, you never forget that burn,” he says half laughing. 

Bruce smiles. Tony looks way too good with that cigarette half hanging down on his bottom lip. He can’t help but stare. Tony is effortlessly sexy, effortlessly cool and, as few people know, it’s not nearly as effortless as they think. Tony is consciously sending Bruce waves of seduction and of coolness. “Look at me” Tony’s body language says, “Love me”

He doesn’t need to put forth such an effort; Bruce would love him without it.

Tony winks when he sees that Bruce can’t stop staring at his mouth. It is overly lascivious, just this side of comedic. He pulls the joint out of his mouth and exhales, watching the smoke flit about the room.

“So, what’s keeping that _big_ brain of yours awake?” Tony licks his lips and then laughs uproariously at Bruce’s expression. Tony’s in fine form tonight.

“Nothing…sleep just won’t come.” They both laugh at Bruce’s poor word choice. Bruce’s laughter has a hysterical edge.

“Seriously, that’s it? Because if I know you like I think I do,” Tony says, putting his arm around Bruce and pushing his head against his naked chest, “you’re not asleep because you’ve decided to torture yourself about something. So tell me, what are you punishing yourself for tonight?” 

Tony begins to comb his fingers through Bruce’s hair. The man’s always had a weird obsession with the unruly mop on his head. He has to stop for a moment to switch the joint from one hand to another, otherwise risking setting Bruce on fire.

“Nothing Tony. I just can’t get sleep is all. The pot’s messing with my brain I think. I’m feeling weird, like all over.”

“It’s never been a problem before. What, you just get the bad stuff this time?” Tony looks at the joint in his hand with horror. 

“Maybe something like that,” Bruce mumbles, his voice muffled by Tony’s skin.

“You sure buddy? Because you seem awful…fucking upset about something. And not your normal annoyingly persistent downer self either. Seems like there’s something more. More sadness in your face, I guess is what I’m saying. And for me to notice this shit, it must be heavy. So, last time I’ll ask big guy, what’s going on with you tonight?” 

Bruce relaxes into the warm hand on his hair. It massages his scalp, lulls him into comfort. It tugs and pulls, just a little, enough to be a goddamn tease. He breathes, slowly and deeply, begging that Tony will just let it go. He doesn’t want to confess his hearts worries, to show his monster’s thoughts. Tony wants it all on the table. He wants Bruce to bleed for him, letting out his toxic substance into the air.

“I don’t want to ruin you,” he mumbles into Tony’s skin.

Tony barks out a laugh. “Ruin me. What the everlovin’ fuck are you talking about babe?”

Bruce reluctantly moves away from Tony’s bare chest and comforting hand. He sighs at this. Oh if only he could be lulled to sleep against his lover, leaving this horrific conversation to rest in his brain.

“I have this…uh…tendency to ruin people. To infect them. I don’t want to make you sick. I want you to be happy and…you just can’t have that with me.”

Tony takes a quick hit of the joint and exhales roughly. He scowls at his lover and closes his eyes for a bit. “I don’t think I’m stoned enough to understand what the fuck you’re saying. Mind translating it for us sober folks?”

Bruce can’t look him in the eye for this. Instead he studies his hands. They are both the instruments of his destruction and salvation. They can heal and they can destroy and he never knows which one they’ll do at any given time. They twist around each other like snakes and his fingers dance around like spiders. He rubs his palms a little before speaking.

“I’m not good enough for you, Tony. Everyone I’ve ever…People around me get hurt. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He looks up to see Tony purse his lips and frown. Then a look crosses his eyes. Pity. Tony pities him. He hates being pitied almost as much as he hates being feared. 

He waits for Tony to launch into a big speech, containing lies like “You’ll never hurt me”, or “I’m not good enough for you Bruce”, or just a litany of “I love you’s” which Bruce would bask in, even with his hardened heart. 

Tony leans back, joint between his fingers. He looks at the ceiling for a bit, as if asking god for strength. His empty hand reaches over and he says “You’re a fuckin’ idiot sweetheart,” as he flicks Bruce right between the eyes. 

Bruce flinches backward, just a bit. It’s startling but not painful. “What?”

“You, Doctor Robert Bruce Banner, are a motherfucking idiot,” he says, as he puts the joint out yet again. “You think you’re going to hurt me? Really? Have we met? Tony Stark, Billionare-Genius-Expert on fucking up every good thing that ever happened in his life. That rings a bell right? You really shouldn’t be worried about being the fuck up in this relationship babe. I’ve got that title covered.” 

Bruce wants to interrupt. He desperately wants to tell his lover that he’s not like that. He’s a better man than that, he deserves more dammit! More than being with the monster. He’s not a fuck up. He’s Iron Man. He’s a hero.

“And the fact that you think you don’t deserve me, my god that beautiful brain of yours must be taking a siesta. You’ve spent years healing the sick, those that can’t afford it. You exiled yourself to the end of the earth, to take care of strangers, all the while depriving yourself of the basic human comfort. Because you thought it was the only way to keep the world protected from the Hulk. I’m the alcoholic Merchant of Death. The worthless party boy who’ll fuck anyone that stands still long enough. Now, who doesn’t deserve who Banner?” 

He can’t let this slide. How can Tony see himself this way? How could anyone look at who Tony is now and see something other than greatness?

“You’re more than that. You’re so much more than that. You realized what you were doing was wrong and you stopped. You cleaned yourself up and became something new, something wonderful. You turned your back on an industry that sickened you and dared to change your entire company to fit your beliefs. You go out there, willing to sacrifice your live for the good of the world! How can you talk about yourself like that? How can you think you’re worthless?”

Tony smiles. “Same way you can, I expect.” 

“It’s not the same.” 

“From where I’m standing it is. You forget something, Bruce. You’re a hero too. You and the Hulk. Without your intelligence, without Hulk having our backs the Avengers would crumble and the world would be so fucking screwed. And yet all you see are your mistakes. We’ve both hurt people, Bruce, we’ve both killed people. The only difference is, you don’t think you deserve to be happy because of it. And yet I do? In what world is that fair?” 

“Tony…,” he says, warningly. 

Tony gets louder, his voice rising with indignation. “No Bruce, answer the question. Why do I get off scot free and you’re stuck there, wallowing in your own guilt? Hmm? Why am I a hero while you’re worthless? Why in the hell do you think I’m so much better than you?”

Bruce tries to keep calm. He tries to stifle the pain trying to crawl its way out of his throat. The bile rising as he closes his eyes and wills it to go away. Another attempt at control fails him. 

“Because you’re not a monster,” he screams, “Monsters don’t….” Bruce combs his hands through his hair. No, he’s not going to bring that man into this. Calm down, come on. 

“You may have made some bad decisions, Tony, but you’re still human. I’m a freak, a criminal and a wanted fugitive. My blood is toxic for god’s sake! The very thing that keeps my heart going could kill you. Humans are allowed to make mistakes, humans are allowed to grow and find love but that’s just it Tony, I’m not human!” 

Tony looks up at the ceiling, as if to say “oh lord give me strength”. “No, _Hulk’s_ the monster. Kind of a piss poor monster though. He has a fondness for kittens. It’s adorable actually, in a ‘never gonna fuckin’ say it to his face’ kinda way.”

“Tony--"

“He may be a ‘monster’ but not in the way you’re saying. And you sure as hell aren’t. Sure you’re not like a normal human, whatever the fuck that is, but does that make you less deserving? Then what does it mean for the rest of us? Thor’s a fucking god from outer space, Steve is a super human created in a lab and I don’t have a heart. Literally, it’s just gone. I have a piece of machinery keeping me alive. At least you can feel your heart beating; at least you don’t glow in the fucking dark. Using your criteria we’d all be monsters.” 

“You guys aren’t monsters.” Bruce says softly.

“Yeah, well and neither are you. No matter what _anyone_ says.” 

Tony stares at him pointedly as he says this, hoping that Bruce will get what he really means. 

No matter what anyone says….no matter what your father used to say. 

_Monster, freak. You should never have been born._

Tony, cutting to the heart of his pain with a vague word. Just tactful enough to not mention the man by name, letting Bruce connect the dots. 

His mind revolts against what Tony is saying, fighting against this ray of hope in his chest. That despite everything, he’s not a monster. Or he’s a monster on a team full of monsters. But those words, “no matter what anyone says,” feel the best, harken back to his own words, given to Tony during one of his own downturns. “Your father was wrong about you, you’re worth it,” he had said. 

Now similar words back in his face.

Your father was wrong about you.

You’re not a monster.

You deserve this.

“Like I said earlier,” Tony remarks, “you’re a fucking idiot.” He leans over and takes Bruce’s face in his hand, kissing him slowly. Bruce kisses back, hesitantly then with more courage. He laughs against Tony as his lover takes his bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, just a little. Tony’s obsession with his lips is almost disturbing and very flattering. 

Tony slides his tongue across Bruce’s lower lip, soothing it after the rough treatment and then they pull apart. 

“Enough of this shit, Bruce. Just…enough, for tonight at least. I know this isn’t the end of it. If anyone fucking gets kicking yourself around for hours over past sins, it’s me. But…you’ve spent way too much time torturing yourself with this. I can’t do a damn thing about it either, just hope that one day you’ll fucking get it.” 

Bruce smiles and brushes Tony’s hair out of his face. Tony continues. “But until then all I can do is tell you this, if you’re hell-bent on calling yourself a monster, then fine. I hear your boyfriend’s kind of a monster too. He’s made out of metal parts and he used to kill people, for a shit ton of money. And he cares about you, a lot. So when you start to beat yourself up, he’ll be here to tell you just how stupid you are.” 

His mind finally shuts off, the nagging, torturing voices crawling back to where they belong. They will continue to nag at him, scream at him that he doesn’t deserve this, that he’s no good, that he’ll ruin every chance that Tony has at a good life. That he’s a monster and doesn’t deserve love. In those moments, he hopes he’ll remember everything Tony said tonight. That he’ll hear his lover talking about how he deserves to be loved, about how he’s a hero and that Tony will stick by him. Bruce figures if he has to be a monster, at least he won’t be alone. 

They crawl under the covers and drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out sounding weirdly poetic, so if the tone throws you off, sorry. It was an experiment to see how that would work. Also Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa means something like 'my fault, my most grievous fault'.


End file.
